Yesterday I did two things I rarely do: I went uptown, and I went to a museum. To generalize, à la Carrie Bradshaw, there are certain New Yorkers who keep abreast of cultural goings-on, who go to gallery openings for reasons other than free wine and breathlessly follow the progression of and revolving doors at the Whitney Biennial. And then there are the rest of us, who only go to any of the above when visitors are in town.
“So I’m thinking we start at the Met, then the City Museum of New York, then St. John the Divine, and then Grant’s Tomb…” he trailed off at my falling face. It was such a gorgeous day, after all, almost shirtsleeves weather, finally spring.
“Maybe not the Met,” I said, as we stood on its wide cream steps. “It’s so huge; it deserves its own day.”
So we didn’t; we took off through the hills and greens of upper Central Park, stopping to sit on the Copywriter’s bench and watch the tail end of a hockey game.
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The Cooks and the Curious 